In the Dark
by Luke1
Summary: During Return of the Jedi, Han begins to wonder what has become of Luke's old light....


Han found him sitting in the dark, alone. He wasn't sure how long it had taken him to notice that Luke had gone missing, almost as if something had been preventing it, gently convincing his mind that Luke was still there in the cockpit with the others. But that was crazy, right? Luke had probably just slipped out silently as, Han had noticed, he seemed now accustomed to doing. He was no longer a vessel for barely contained teenage energy, his attentions in all directions, his stops and starts in speech and motion sudden and excited. That was the old Luke. This melancholy and distant person that Luke had become was new to Han, and so different from the kid he'd known before the carbonite that at first he hadn't even seen the change, so far removed it was from his expectations; once he had, it frightened him.

Luke was in the cargo hold of the captured Imperial shuttle. They hadn't been in hyperspace very long, and wouldn't be much longer, having begun from a rendevous point not far away from the forest moon. Han guessed that Luke had slipped away to catch a few minutes of peace alone before what was sure to be a trying mission. He couldn't see Luke very well, because his eyes were not quite accustomed to the darkness yet, but he could hear his shaky breathing.

"What's wrong?" Han asked.

The breathing changed; Luke took in a slight gasp and cast his eyes up and across the dark room; Han saw the light from the doorway glint off of them as well as a few tears that sat on his cheeks. Not missing a beat, Luke wiped the tears angrily away, as if he refused them their claim on his feelings. "Nothing," he breathed.

Han raised an eyebrow. It wasn't the first time he'd seen Luke cry, but Luke was no longer a ball of teenage hormones mixed with a lack of a concept of emotional modesty, as he had been the other times. He didn't expect tears from him now. "Like hell. Don't give me that, kid–you're crying."

Seeing the confused look on the boy's face, Han began to understand something about this guise that Luke had begun to wear, this new persona–that it was, in fact, a facade. There hadn't been as much a change in Luke as there had been in the way he thought he needed to be, for whatever reason. The reason was something Han was still working on, but the result was plainly clear to him–Luke had hidden his innocent and sweet nature inside the semblance of a hardened Jedi. But there had to be more to it, and since Luke had hardly spoken to him since they'd met again, Han couldn't begin to piece it together, yet.

Luke didn't answer. Han walked carefully across the room, navigating half-blind around crates and other containers, until he stood before the boy. Luke sat atop a crate, his elbows resting on his knees, his posture either relaxed or, more probably, reflecting the weakness he felt. Han sat on a near-by crate; he would not be brushed off so easily.

Han looked questioningly at Luke for a long moment, Luke not returning his gaze. At last, Luke pleaded, "Could you just leave me alone?"

He considered it, but on the rare occasion that he was convinced someone needed his help, he was going to give it to them, like it or not. He cared too much about Luke to let this slip by. He shook his head. "No way. There's something going on with you, and it ain't like you to not talk to me about it."

Luke shook his head sadly. "That was a long time ago."

"That was _six months_ ago. I may not have any sense of how long I was out, but you guys told me it was six months–and that ain't long enough for you to change this much unless something real bad happened."

Luke was again silent, this time rolling answers around in his head, it seemed to Han. His eyes were adjusting to the low light, and he could see Luke's hands fidgeting with one another nervously. That was a new habit. Suddenly, one of his hands, the gloved one, twitched somewhat unnaturally, and Luke drew in his breath sharply, as if in pain, stilling the gloved hand with the other. He swallowed in either fear or nervousness, and continued to stare at the leather-clad hand as if it were a thing possessed.

Han frowned. "What's wrong with your hand? Why are you wearing that glove?"

Luke finally met Han's eyes, his own a distant blue-grey, not the sharp and twinkling sky blue Han remembered. "No one told you?" he asked softly.

Han shook his head.

Still hesitant, Luke continued to cradle his right hand.

"Come on, kid. I'm not gonna hurt you," Han said gently, and held out his hand for Luke's. He gave it to him at last, eyes closed against whatever intense emotions he was feeling, maybe dreading what Han would think.

Tilting Luke's hand so he could see the area just above the wrist where the glove and Luke's sleeve parted ways, Han saw the skin singed off in a pattern that must have been caused by a blaster. His reaction would have been to treat the wound and comment that it was just like Luke to not have taken care if it himself...

Except beneath the skin, there was no blood or bone or tendons. There was nothing alive at all. There were, instead, the robotic pieces of a prosthetic.

He blinked up into Luke's eyes. Luke looked away, and the light from the doorway danced on unformed tears.

"How?" Han asked, because he understood now, at least in part. This had to have been traumatic.

"On Cloud City," Luke managed. "I came after you and Leia, and...Vader was waiting for me."

"He did this? You _fought_ him?"

A haunted look in his eyes, Luke nodded.

Han felt guilty, but he reminded himself that there was nothing he could have done. "It was a trap..."

Luke nodded again.

"Does it hurt?" Han asked.

"Sometimes," Luke admitted. "And other times I forget that it's not real. But right now...it's kind of...broken..." He finished with a tired laugh.

"You shoulda got it fixed before we left the fleet–"

Luke cut him off. "There wasn't time. Besides, it's fine."

It obviously wasn't fine. Luke was having some difficulty getting it to move correctly, and it looked to Han as if there were at least a couple of things wrong in there. He took Luke's right hand in both of his and squeezed gently, trying to let him know that it was all right–so he was part machine now, so what? It was only a hand. He was still the same kid, deep down. Han _knew_ he was.

There was still one or more components to Luke's depression that Han could tell he was missing. It was natural to be upset over losing a part of one's body, but one didn't sit alone crying in the dark, take to wearing all black, or become emotionally inaccessible to one's friends because of it.

"What did he do to you?" he meant Vader, and he knew Luke would understand. Han had to know, had to piece this together so he could come up with an explanation for what had become of the kid he'd begun to think of as a little brother, how his light had been snuffed out. If he didn't get an explanation, he feared he might go back to his old ways, convinced that maybe the galaxy _couldn't_, after all, be the beautiful place Luke had been sure it would eventually be. The place he had slowly convinced Han it could be.

The boy looked deep into Han's eyes. Again, he didn't answer.


End file.
